Menotah by Ernest G Henham

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Title: Menotah
A Tale of the Riel Rebellion

Author: Ernest G. Henham

Release Date: February 12, 2011 [EBook #35259]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

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MENOTAH

A Tale of the Riel Rebellion

By

ERNEST G. HENHAM

LONDON

HUTCHINSON & CO

MDCCCXCVII

CONTENTS

Part I—THE HEART'S JOY

CHAPTER I—THE FOREST
CHAPTER II—MENOTAH—HEART THAT KNOWS NOT SORROW
CHAPTER III—THE BUDDING OF A PASSION
CHAPTER IV—THE FORT
CHAPTER V—THE FIGHT
CHAPTER VI—THE BREAKING OF THE DAWN

Part II—THE HEART'S GRIEF

CHAPTER I—THE TREE OF KNOWLEDGE
CHAPTER II—THE COMING OF DAVE
CHAPTER III—THE RIVALS
CHAPTER IV—WHITE WINS
CHAPTER V—PACTOLUS
CHAPTER VI—DENTON'S DESCENT
CHAPTER VII—AN INCIDENT
CHAPTER VIII—THE PIERIAN SPRING
CHAPTER IX—THE LAUGH THAT DIED

Part III—THE HEART'S PEACE

CHAPTER I—LAMONT
CHAPTER II—THE LIFE-OBJECT
CHAPTER III—RESURRECTION
CHAPTER IV—CHARACTER
CHAPTER V—THE DEAD HEART
CHAPTER VI—DURING THE DAY
CHAPTER VII—DISCOVERY
CHAPTER VIII—RETRIBUTION
CHAPTER IX—DARKNESS
CHAPTER X—McAULIFFE'S RESOLUTION
CHAPTER XI—THE HEART'S PEACE

Glossary

PREFATORY NOTE

In the following story of the Canadian North-West Rebellion, Louis Riel—leader of a hopeless enterprise—has not
been introduced as an active character. He was himself so colourless, so commonplace, that a true picture must have
been uninteresting, while a fictitious drawing would have been unsatisfactory and out of place with the plan of this story.
He was much like his brother, who lives to-day on an unpretentious farm in the Red River Valley, dull-witted, heavy-
featured and obtuse—in fact, a French half-breed of the ordinary stamp.

So the plot of this work tends more towards the study of passion, and dwells upon what was undoubtedly one of the
principal reasons for the revolt, viz., the unscrupulous treatment of the Indian women by the white invaders. The
'Governor and Company of Adventurers of England trading into Hudson's Bay,' generally and more commonly known
by the simpler title of the 'Hudson's Bay Company,' had well paved the way for this miserable laxity in matters of
morality.

The mighty shadow which looms behind this tale of the Rebellion is that of the loyal Archbishop Taché. He it was,
though the fact has not been recognised generally, who, almost unaided, crushed the rising spirit of independence in
half-breeds and Indians, and brought the insurrection to a close. Surely it is not too late to do justice to the memory of
this truly unselfish prelate.

The writer was present in the riverside town of St Boniface on a certain still evening during the August of 1894. There
all the houses, and even the trees that lined the streets, were heavily draped in black; men and women passed slowly
with heads uncovered and attitude of grief; it was as though each had lost his or her nearest and dearest relative. There
was not a sound along that little town of mourning.

For the Archbishop lay dead in the Cathedral. Later, when the sun was setting over this place of universal grief, the
writer came within the dark building, crept up a winding stairway, to find himself confronted suddenly by a singularly
solemn spectacle. Before the altar, robed in full pontificals, sat in State the dead Archbishop, while lamps flickered
solemnly, and muttered intercessions arose from the trembling lips of a ring of kneeling priests.

This strange silence, broken only by the whisperings, or occasional deep gasps of breath; the feeble glimmerings of
lights along the rapidly darkening scene; the presence of the mighty dead still presiding in the second Cathedral that his
efforts had raised[1]—all this made up a spectacle dramatically impressive, and one not readily to be forgotten.

The writer came at length to the side of the dead prelate, and bent to reverently kiss the cold gloved hand of the mighty
dead. Then he departed, with a silent resolve to do such justice as he could to the memory of this beloved Father and
Pastor, who had worked so nobly for the welfare of the country of his adoption.

Menotah's story is a sad one, yet, for purposes of truth, not sad enough. The colours might well be painted with a far
darker brush, but the book would then probably be deemed too ghastly and too realistic. The steady march of
civilisation is pushing farther north each year, while Menotah's history is repeated daily. The only thing which can free
that wonderful land from the vice and oppression of its masters is the building of the Hudson's Bay Railway. About forty
miles of the track (from Winnipeg to St Laurent on Lake Manitoba) have been constructed, but the rails lie rotting in the
prairie grass. This line would open up a country of boundless timber and mineral resources, and might well create many
a fresh industry.

The characters in this work are for the most part actual life studies. None are overdrawn, not even Peter Denton, least
of all McAuliffe.

The local colour is simply so much word photography. The particular fort on the Great Saskatchewan has been
described with absolute accuracy of detail. The river pool (Chap. II.) is there; also the island in mid-stream, where the
fight actually occurred; the great rapids, the oil swamp, the log wharf—all are there. In fact, description and dialogue
has entailed upon the writer rather an effort of memory than any strain upon the imagination.

The first Cathedral was destroyed by fire immediately after completion, when all the parish records
were destroyed.

[1]

PART I

THE HEART'S JOY

CHAPTER I

THE FOREST

'There will be full moon to-night, and a south wind. Then the evil one will steal from the marshes. For there will be war
and fire. War and Fire!'

Within that deep green shade of the forest, amidst the picturesque sweepings of the foliage, the heat rays of the sun
could scarcely be felt, for odorous firs overspread their thick tresses above. Here, in this strange, peaceful retreat,
active squirrels leapt with mathematical accuracy from bough to bough; mosquito hawks, in their green and gold glories,
cut through the slanting beams of light with a sharp hissing of wings; erratic locusts, on a lower plane, hurled their
aimless bodies clumsily into space, falling wherever destiny might direct.

The speaker remained invisible, while the lingering sounds of the joyous voice died slowly away. A young man, who
heard the sudden cry from the heart of the surrounding silence, started and listened eagerly for an approaching footstep,
which came not. Only the happy echo broke upon the calm in a full tide of harmony; this merged into a half gasp of
musical laughter; then came peace again as the last vibration settled into silence.

The listener wondered, then became interested. There had been no flaw in the musical cadence of that cry. The fiery
utterance—bearing a latent warning—proceeded surely from the heart of one who found life a time of joy, who gloried
in the exultation of overflowing vitality, who was also intoxicated by an over-gift of health. This passing sound, like the
flitting shadow cast by an invisible presence, contained a message of youth's hot passion, of a self-conscious rapture of
beauty. Those words fell from the lips of one who had made no acquaintance with sorrow.

The expectant, yet disappointed, listener shifted the rifle to his shoulder and rubbed his hands, which were hot and
moist, upon a bunch of flowering moss. He seemed uneasy, if his feelings might be judged by the anxious attention he
gave to each slight movement in the adjoining bush. But after a period of waiting he drew himself up, inclined his head
forward, and listened attentively. Then he nodded and smiled in self-satisfied manner, listened again, and finally began to
work his way through the thick undergrowth with the subtle motions of the practised bushman. Perhaps a rippling echo
of that musical voice had travelled faintly down the wind and touched his ear.

He disappeared, while the boundless forest of the Great Saskatchewan whispered drearily beneath the soft-stirring
breeze of evening.

Lonely, somewhat wild, yet certainly there was a rough grandeur in this particular arrangement of nature's handiwork; a
stern beauty, which must have fascinated the hunter; a wonderful blending of colours, which would have caused the
heart of the painter to despair. Paths, in the ordinary sense of the term, were there none, though a sinuous, barely
defined trail, where mocassined feet passed occasionally, writhed dimly away here and thee. The venturesome explorer
who plunged into these unknown recesses chose out his own particular route, fought a way through the entanglement of
undergrowth, while none might ever follow in his footsteps.

Tangled masses and bewildering festoons of drooping boughs, tinted to many a different shade of green; black and grey
rocks; red sand stretches, surmounted by wire grass or huge ant-hills; octopus-like bushes, thorn-protected and thickly
covered with red berries. Such were the principal objects of distinction beneath a solemn green canopy, which spread
like some threatening cloud overhead.

Crack!

Wild echoes fled shrieking through the forest, while a pale mist of blue smoke rose, flouted upward fantastically, curled
and lengthened—then finally melted.

Just before that sharp, whip-like report had cut the air, a splendid buck deer sprang from the thick of the sweeping
branches out into the open. Away it bounded, with the ease and certainty of a well-aimed arrow, over a ridge of
splintered rocks. Away—across to the opposite shadows, where lay shelter and life.

But then the weapon screamed death, and spat the bullet forth.

While still in the air, the graceful creature's body stiffened, as though each muscle had been thrilled and stretched by an
electric current. The nimble feet touched the ground, but not now to dart away in fresh flight. The deer tottered forward,

because the impulse to seek shelter was a dying passion, but the slender legs gave way. After staggering blindly, it fell to
its knees; then, after swaying backwards and forwards with pitiful gasping, it finally rolled over upon the moss bed with
a groan, while warm blood trickled cruelly over the short soft fur.

'Good shot, Winton! You took him fine, boy.'

Then two men stepped from the bushes. The one, who thus spoke his opinion of the other's aim, was an elderly man,
thin and dark featured. His somewhat sallow face was decorated by nature with a grizzled beard, while more than an
occasional grey hair might have been observed beneath the rim of his felt hat. Extremely dark eyes and heavy mouth
revealed the fact of Indian ancestry.

His companion, scarcely more than a boy, was unmistakably English. The breeze stirred his fair hair at an altitude of
over six feet above ground; age could not claim from him more than twenty-one years.

'Shot a bit too far back, though,' continued Sinclair the hunter. 'Don't say it wasn't difficult to kill from your position, and
you took him on the jump.'

'Dead, isn't it?' said Winton, blowing down his rifle barrel.

The hunter laughed. 'No, sir. Get over there with your knife, and finish him. Don't leave the poor brute to bleed and sob
himself to death.'

The other slung the rifle to his shoulder, drew a long hunting knife, then made across the open space. He knelt by the
side of the panting creature, wound his fingers round a branching antler, and pulled the head round to inflict the coup de
grâce.

Sinclair leaned up against a rock, his arms folded, a smug smile gradually widening across his features.

'You shouldn't mutilate,' he called out carelessly. 'Shoot to kill outright—specially deer. It's bad policy to only wound a
buck.' Then he chuckled as he perceived the statuesque position of his companion.

With a necessary hardening of the heart—for the stabbing of a deer in cold blood makes the man of refinement feel
strangely a murderer—Winton raised his knife and prepared to cut across the long veins swelling at the side of the
palpitating neck. The blade descended, his grasp tightened, the steel flashed down—when suddenly the graceful
creature lifted its head with a dying effort, and gazed with great, suffering eyes full into his face. It was then that the
young man paused, while the dry chuckle broke out behind.

For in that seemingly unequal contest the animal won. All strength fled from the murdering hand when its owner beheld
those dark fixed eyes of his piteous victim. They were large and luminous, while tear drops of pain trickled along and
blackened the surrounding fur. The small black nostrils quivered pitifully in death gaspings. A heartbroken torture
overspread the face, which reproached him for the cruel deed of his hand.

A minute later the knife fell unused to the ground. A sickening revulsion of feeling followed, sweeping over him with
overpowering force, combined with weariness and a hatred of life. His eyes could not alter the direction of their gaze,
for they were held and fascinated by that dark, reproachful glance, as a bird is rendered helpless by the snake.

'Got it,' muttered Sinclair. 'Got it bad. But it will be good for the boy.'

That strange malady, the deer fever, had a firm hold upon Winton. His entire body became seized with violent ague. He
trembled with cold, though conscious at the same time that his hands and feet were burning. His quick breath stabbed
him with hot gasps. Moisture broke out on his forehead as a horrible vision presented itself to the imagination. He
himself was the victim, while the conqueror lay before him. His only chance for life lay in immediate flight, but his feet
were chained together and fastened to the ground. He must therefore remain and die.

'It's what I looked for,' muttered Sinclair into his beard. Then he came forward across the open space, and picked up
the knife.

As he bent over the deer, and as the animal resigned its life with a deep sob, the man in the trance revived and gazed
blankly, first at the dead creature stretched beside him, then at the grinning face of his companion.

'What in the devil's name have you been up to, Sinclair?' he said stupidly.

'Up to, eh?' remarked the hunter slowly, with evident enjoyment, as he wiped the knife. 'What are you doing anyhow,
lying around there half asleep? Good sort of buck killer you are!'

The young man pulled himself up. 'You've been fooling.'

'I'm a clever chap, then. Reckon I could knock you over in that shape? Well, well, to think of a strong young fellow like
you being beaten by a harmless sort of half dead beast.'

'You don't say it was the deer?' asked the young man, still dazed.

The hunter laughed. 'That's what. You had the fever, and as strong as I've ever seen it take a man.'

'Well—that beats all,' said Winton, hanging on each syllable.

'Told you it wasn't well to wound and not kill. Guess you won't fix another for quite a time.'

'How's that? Lots of them around, aren't there?'

'I reckon,' said the other drily. 'Question is whether you'll be able to shoot when you sight one. It'll worry you a bit. I'm
thinking.'

Winton stretched his long limbs. 'It takes me all my time to understand this. Course I've heard of the fever—lots of
times, but I didn't put much on hunters' talk—'

'And now you've had it.'

'It doesn't last, though?'

'Won't with you, I reckon. I've known some taken with it when they weren't any better than boys, and as they got older
it didn't show any wearing off. Whenever they'd start to shoot at a deer, the fever would come up as bad as ever.'

'But it doesn't happen to everyone?'

'I guess it's the exception. I've never had it. Some say it's no bad sign when a young fellow gets knocked over with it.
For it's generally men that are good shots who get bothered with the fever. Another thing—if a fellow goes to knife the
beast with any sort of pity—you had, I know, for I watched you close—he's gone. You're feeling right again, eh?'

The other assented. 'It goes off as quickly as it comes on, anyhow.'

'And leaves a man none the worse,' added the hunter. Then he hastened to change the subject, as he noticed the
gradual blackening of the surrounding shadows.

'See here, Winton, it's getting sort of late. Alf will be bothering, if we're not back by dark. Suppose you wait here, while
I make tracks for the horses?'

'There's an hour of daylight yet,' said Winton. 'Let's sit down for a smoke. There's lot of time.'

Sinclair glanced round a little uneasily. 'Make it half a pipeful, and I don't mind joining you. I'm sort of hungry for a bit of
plug. But, I tell you straight, I'm not wanting to hang around here long after sunset.'

Winton chuckled. 'My turn now,' he said. 'It's my laugh on you. Why, you're a regular old woman to-day, Sinclair.
What's the racket now?'

The hunter bit at his moustache. 'Well, it's this way—I'm a little scared of the nitchies.'

'Pshaw! That's about the tenth time to-day you've shammed fright. Don't see why we should want to bother, just
because the breeds 'way down south are painting their faces and making alarming fools of themselves. What's wrong
with your courage, Sinclair?'

'That's all right,' said the other sullenly; then paused, while a dim blue flame shot upward from his pipe. He seated
himself on the white moss near his companion, then placed a hand upon his knee. 'Tell you, Winton, this rebellion in the
Territories is going to be something worth jotting down in a book of history.'

'Don't think much of it,' said the other contemptuously.

'That's because you don't know the people. I do, because I'm descended from them in a way myself. And I know Riel.
Have seen him, spoken to him, more than that—I've fought with him knife to knife before to-day. Nothing's going to
stop him, except a chance bullet, or the few yards of rope your countrymen are fond of allowing any poor devil who
tries to get the better of them. Give me a match.'

Winton complied, while the hunter continued, 'You don't think much of the rebellion, eh? Still there's a pretty thick
crowd of half crazy Indians and breeds. Darn me if I know what the opposition consists of.'

'Well, I do,' put in Winton. 'What's the matter with the militia and the police? They're good enough for you.'

'Yes, they're first-class bullet stoppers. Fine, targets, with their red coats, for the boys to drive their bullets into. Pshaw!
The soldiers can't begin to save the country. I've not a bit of use for the farmers and settlers. But I allow it can be done,
Winton. There's one man—a single man, with an almighty lot of power, who can swamp up the whole rebellion as I'd
swallow a dram of whisky. Question is whether he'll do it.'

'Who are you talking of? Not General—'

'Pshaw! Not that sneaking coward. The man I'm thinking on is general of the Church, not the army. I reckon, Winton,
that Archbishop Taché is the only one who can put a stopper to this rising. What?'

'Well, if that's so, Sinclair, what's it got to do with us 'way up here?'

The hunter pulled strongly at his pipe, then spat violently on the moss. 'You don't see it, eh? I'll show you, then. I'm as

darned sure as though he'd told me himself that Riel means to stamp the whole crowd of whites clean out of the land.
Course he can't be around every place himself, so he just sends round messages all over this country.'

'Telling the tribes to rise?'

'And clean out the whites in their district. They're bound to obey, for they look upon Riel as a sort of nickle-plate god.
Besides, they're scared of his vengeance if they refuse and he comes off victorious. They're all dead sure he can't be
beaten anyhow.'

'You think we shall have some sport round here?' asked Winton, lazily.

'I don't know anything for certain; but it's likely enough.'

'I don't think so. The nitchies around here are not well armed. We should be able to beat them off easily enough if they
did attack the fort. Your pipe's gone out.'

Sinclair leaned forward. 'Give me a match.' Then he continued in a changed tone, 'You wouldn't talk like that if you
knew everything. You only see Riel. You don't know a darned thing about anything behind—who's stirring him up,
who's supplying the brains to run this rebellion, and all the rest of it. I tell you, I know more than any man living, and
when the time comes—by God, I'll use my knowledge.'

He drew the match savagely along his breeches, and relighted his pipe.

'You're a lot safer up here than you'd be down in Manitoba.'

'I'd like to be back,' said the hunter; 'and I'm going by next boat, whether the hunting's good or bad. I'd no right to leave
the wife and children in these bad times. How can I tell what's going on while I'm away up here? If they were all dead
and planted, I'd be none the wiser.'

Winton stretched himself, accompanying the action with a subdued laugh.

'You're a terrible croaker, Sinclair. Why don't you look on the bright side? It's just as easy, and a lot pleasanter.'

The old hunter rose. 'Don't know how it is, Winton, but I feel sort of low-spirited just now.'

'That's something new. What's wrong?'

'Uneasy, I guess. Well, I'm off. It'll be dark presently.'

He picked up his rifle and prepared to move. 'I've no use for fooling around in the forest at this time. It isn't healthy.
There's too much mischief drifting up, and a fellow never knows when it's going to break. You'll wait here till I'm up
with the horses, eh?'

'I'll watch the meat and finish my smoke.'

'That's it. Guess you know which way to steer for the fort, eh? Make north-west till you come to the big fir that the
nitchies call the death tree. You can just catch the top of the flagstaff from there, if you get up before the light goes out.'

'I know,' said Winton, quietly. 'But what are you telling me for?'

'So as you'd be all right if we got parted. Wouldn't do for you to get lost in the forest if anything happened to me.'

'What in the devil's likely to happen?'

'Nothing, I reckon. Still, it's good to keep on the right side. Well, don't fall asleep over your smoke; keep the rifle
handy.' The next minute his spare figure disappeared amongst the bushes.

Left to himself, Winton pulled at his pipe and reflected upon the words of his late companion.

On ordinary occasions the old hunter was never accustomed to suffer from any such lack of courage, therefore his
parting words became the more significant. Then there was another thing to remember: Sinclair, himself of mixed blood,
understood the native character thoroughly. On his own confession, he possessed more knowledge—and that of a
secret nature—than most, so after all it might be advisable to attend to his warning.

Winton settled his broad back firmly against a tree trunk, and reflected. For a small quarter of an hour he was left to
himself in the dreary forest, at a time most productive of sentimental thought—when light was gradually merging into
night. This was a solemn time, when a man was induced to think by the nature of his surroundings, and half
unconsciously review the action of a past.

This young man was, without being aware of it, a type of civilization. He had not much to look back upon. Merely a
schoolboy career, in which he had won a reputation of being the finest athlete and the most unprincipled character of his
time; a year at Oxford, productive of more laurels, combined with disgrace for many a daring escapade; then the
crowning act of foolishness, the expulsion, a hurried flight abroad, because he dared not face the wrath of parents, or
the sad reproach of a pretty, petted sister; lastly the burying of his identity in a strange land.

There were many such characters in the country. At home they were considered superfluous beings of uselessness.
Here they were the foundation of a new society, the pioneers of an incoming tide of civilization. Such men—not the
stay-at-home successes of the schools—have often turned the wavering balance to their country's profit in such a
world's crisis as a Waterloo, a Trafalgar. That recklessness, that daring—once labelled as viciousness by scholastic
guardians—then become England's glory and shield at time of need.

Somewhere in the neighbouring bush a twig snapped with a sharp, dry sound. Winston glanced round quickly, while the
fingers of his right hand closed mechanically round the rifle as he remembered Sinclair's warning. But no other sound
reached his ears, while nothing unusual appeared before his eyes.

He began to wonder whether Sinclair's fear had communicated itself to him. This weakness was excusable, for the
forest was growing very dark—lonely it always was—and full of strange sounds. Solitude works strangely upon the
imagination.

His hand released the rifle, and roamed idly along the ground. Presently fingers came in contact with certain matter,
which was thick and sticky to the touch. With a slight shudder he withdrew the hand, and when his eyes fell upon the
red fingers he involuntarily uttered a sharp cry of astonishment and fear—but the next instant he laughed.

He had forgotten the dead animal, which lay stiffening at his side.

'Lucky old Sinclair isn't here,' he muttered. 'It would be his turn to have the smile.'

He wiped his red fingers upon the white moss, then began to pace up and down, listening anxiously for the tramp of
horses, or cheery cry of his returning companion.

The minutes fled past in silence. The sun had fallen beneath the black tree line, which fringed the northern shore of the
Saskatchewan. Glistening dew was settling softly, while a shadowy presence of evening stirred along the forest.

Winton grasped a bunch of foliage; the leaves were cold and slimy to the touch. 'Past the quarter hour. The horses must
have strayed, so, like a fool, he's gone after them. I'll give him ten minutes more. If he isn't here then, I shall make tracks
before the darkness gets any thicker.'

Ah! That sound was no work of the imagination.

He wheeled round sharply, with ready rifle to his shoulder. The sharp rustling of parting bushes brought the heart to his
mouth. But he saw nothing.

Then a branch waved ominously, and he felt it was not caused by the wind. He strained his eyes to pierce the gloom
which surrounded the mass of interlacing boughs.

Surely that was a dusky face of one who had sworn destruction to his race. Fierce eyes of hatred were glaring upon
him; a mouth was set in thin line of determination; hands were raised, perhaps preparing to point a heavily charged
muzzle-loader; he was the object of that aim.

Sinclair's words came back, as he sprang aside in a bath of fear. His one idea just then was immediate escape. Once he
slipped in the thickening blood, then reached the bushes opposite. Once behind the thick leafy screen, he would be safe
for the time.

But, as the clammy leaves swept upon his face, there was a loud, vibrating report.

For a second, the darkness round his head surged in a red glow. That Indian face had been no work of the imagination.
The echoes thrilled through his head; a fearful stab, like a hot breath, glowed along his body.

He was shot. The charge had passed through his chest, and the blood was trickling forth sluggishly.

The wound might not be mortal. So he staggered forward, every moment dreading the shock of a second report. He
clutched at a branch, which swayed up and down restlessly. His heart was beating furiously, his brain was burning, yet
he seemed to grow no weaker. Then, with equal suddenness, there came to his ears, from the surrounding bush, the
gasping cry—the voice of a man in pain, followed by the stamp of strong, hurrying hoofs.

He knew that the cry had been uttered by his hunter friend.

This brought him back to reason. So he was not shot after all; but Sinclair was. It would be his turn now. The dark
enemies were closing round him to complete their work. There was still beating in his ears the horrible, dull sound of a
shot body crashing through small bushes towards the ground of which it was then part.

Should he go back in the direction of that sound? What help could he hope to render a corpse? Besides, the whole
bush was alive with threatening voices and vengeful faces. There was hostile movement everywhere along the dark,
awful forest.

Then these noises increased tenfold and rose louder. A panting, mad struggling, a furious crashing, with sparks shooting
upward from rugged stones, bridle reins flying and catching, while before sped a mist of smoky breath. Such was the
vision of the grey monster, which loomed suddenly from the darkness and stumbled heavily almost at his feet.

It was the grey mare he had ridden that day. But where was the dark horse, and where was Sinclair? Dead, and in that
death lay the most convincing proof of the truth of the last word he had spoken.

Goaded by fear and the desperation of the moment, he had sprung forward. He was mounted, and dashing furiously
through the forest, ignorant of direction, feeling only the great and terrible fear of the pursued. Branches cut and bruised
his face; small twigs bent and lashed him angrily; the night wind hissed with menace upon his ears; while behind, around,
in front, the great forest shrieked and raved.

Onward crashed the horse, the white breath streaming away, the flecks of foam dashing to each side. He bent down
and shrank together, his single idea being to present as small a target as possible. Every second he expected to hear the
crash of muzzle-loaders, to hear the screech of shot, to feel the sharp sting of lead in his back.

Still on, heading he knew not where in that terrible fright. Sparkling dew dashed off the leaves; long bushes streamed
past his legs; red sparks shot madly upward from the iron-black rocks beneath.

CHAPTER II

MENOTAH—HEART THAT KNOWS NOT SORROW

Ne-ha-hah! Drip, flash, gurgle. Down from rock to rock—splash, tinkle—soft, softer, with a long, peaceful swirl of
bubbles, as the lone rushes by the bank shivered again. With a gleam beneath a dancing ray of sunlight, with a beauty
spot of white foam here and there. Min-ne-ha-hah! Splash, drip-drip—splash! Then a quickening run of black and
silver bars, a long, golden line of light—with a bright singing voice, and with a peal of music like the chime of distant
bells. Ne-ha-hah!

The place of the laughing waters. Here the sun quivered for colour music, while wind and water met and kissed with the
whispering caress of an ever endless song. First came the wind, with deep, long sigh through the bushes, then the
sunlight. After this overture, one might listen to the melody of the waters.

'Ne-pink, ink-ink-ah. Min-ne-sot-ah-hah. Ha-hah-ne-ah-ah! Ne-ha-hah-ah! Pink-ink-ink. Ne-pink. Ne-ah. Nepink-
ah-hah. Min-ha! Ne-ah-ink-ink. Min-ne-ha-ink-ink! Ne-sot-ah! So-tah. So-tah-ha-hah-ah! Min-ne-ha. Pink-ink-ink.
Ne-ah! Pink-ink-ink. Ne-ha! Ne-hah! Ne-ha! Ne-sot-ah! Ne-ha-hah-ha! Ne-ha-hah! Ah! Hah!'

Then the wind swelled louder for the great wordless opera. The sunrays grew whiter and stronger to light up the great
rugged stage of Nature.

There was a mighty slab of black rock, which the waves lapped listlessly, at one side of the river pool. This appeared to
shoot straight from the heart of the forest—part bathed by the water, part shielded and hidden by a tangle of bushes. To
a pendulous branch, projecting over the black stone, had been attached a coloured streamer of cloth, which rose and
fell gaily with the wind, like the guiding beat of a conductor's bâton.

Then the voice of Nature was broken into, yet not disturbed, again. A clear, thrilling cry came from the forest, the
careless, happy cry of a young life.

'There will be full moon to-night, and a south wind. Then the evil one will steal from the marshes, for there will be war
and fire. War and Fire!'

That same voice again, but now the speaker was nearer and approaching. In such a place, at such a time, it might
almost have been Wasayap on her way to meet the Heelhi-Manitou at the Passing Place of the Spirits.

The music of the waters swelled a little higher into a louder, purer burst of melody. The departing sun streamed
slantingly across the so-far empty stage, where a few white grass stems shivered.

'Min-ne-ha! Pink-ink-ink. Ne-ha! Min-ne-ha. Ne-ha! Ne-hah! Ne-ha! Ne-sot-ah! Ne-ha-hah-ha! Ne-ha-hah! Ne-ha!
Ah! Hah!'

The clinging bushes hung around and above without motion. Suddenly they parted, with quick swish and rapid rustling
of leaves, and the next moment appeared a wonderful vision.

'Men-ha! Ot-ah! Me-e-e-e-ot-ah. Ah-ha! Ha-hah-ha-ah! Me-ot-hah. Ot-ah! Ah-ah-ah! Ot-ah! Ot-ah! Ah-hah! Men-
ot-ah! Ot-ah! Menotah!'

With a noisy, petulant fluttering of foliage the bushes sprang back to their former position. The vision finally resolved
itself into human form and shape, as it sprang down to the rock with the agile bound of a young deer. Then the waters
smiled into the laughing face of a young and lovely girl.

With a soft, gurgling laughter, suggestive of sheer happiness and exuberance of life, she deftly balanced her dainty body
upon one tiny foot, then, with quick clutch, snatched at and captured the overhanging bough, which bent itself barely
within reach of her hand. When she had pulled this to a level with her forehead, she swung herself airily backwards and

forwards, her feet softly caressing the hard rock with the beating motions of a gentle dance.

She had thrown her head well back, and thus revealed the delicate moulding of her velvet neck; her long hair was
rippling unbound along the bright rays of intermittent sunshine; the liquid song-notes of a native ditty trilled from her red,
smiling lips.

She was admirable; she was perfect; she was adorable.

Her skin was dark, yet by no means swarthy. Soft and delicate in its purity, she resembled more the refined Creole than
an Indian girl of the forest. Her dress, which reached a little below the knees, was of a coarse material dyed red, while
her arms and feet were bare, or, rather, clothed in their own perfect beauty. Entwined round her temples, twisted in
careless profusion through the cloud of her flowing hair, wound a festoon of emerald leaves and glowing berries,
snatched from some forest bush as she sped lightheartedly amongst the trees. Radiant as were these berries, Nature had
not painted them with the rich scarlet of Menotah's cheeks, nor with the deep carmine of her parted lips, through which
came the pearly glitter of the teeth. And above, the dark eyes flashed and shone, spreading the happy contagion of
mirth as they passed, with the hovering action of the swallow, from one object to another.

So, unconscious of evil, insensible to suffering, she swung herself from side to side upon the black rock, while her face
shone with rapture, like the laughing water which bubbled beneath her feet. The sun dropped down to the uneven line of
a long ridge opposite, while a fine glow shot into the sky. Again she swung on tiptoe, and sang in a clear voice a sweet
voice with a thrill in it that sounded through the forest and over the water, light and sparkling as the tinkling of raindrops
upon the leaves.

In her youthful, ignorant passion she sang to the Spirit for understanding of life, for knowledge of human secrets, for
unending joy and eternal love in the years to come, while the wind and the water played her a wonderful
accompaniment.

She stopped suddenly, with a musical cry of sheer happiness, then sprang, lithe and supple as a squirrel, from the higher
ridge of the rock, in mid-air releasing her grasp of the branch. Upward it darted, with the force of a steel spring, striking
down upon the dark tresses a shower of brown fir spines with many small green cones.

Lightly as a snowflake the girl came to the lower platform of stone, which lay almost at a level with the water. Her step
was sure, for her young limbs were strong and yielding. She made a dancing step; cast her arms delightedly above her
head, accompanying the action with a merry burst of laughter; passed two shapely hands beneath a dark mist of hair,
which had streamed forward over her face, and threw it back with a graceful gesture.

She gazed around and upward, finally fixing her eyes upon the branch she had lately clung to. It seemed as though she
searched for something not at once discernible. Presently she clasped her hands together with a short cry of pleasure.

'The Spirit is pleased,' she cried, with a sudden catch to her rich voice. 'I am always to be beautiful; I am always to be
happy. The Spirit himself has waited here to tell me.'

For the coloured steamer had disappeared. Probably it had been shaken away to the neighbouring bushes, when the
bough had sprung back into position; perhaps it had then been unsecured and the wind had since removed It. At all
events it had vanished, and this knowledge brought her happiness.[1]

She paused for awhile, as though in thought. Her soft forehead fell into little, curved lines, while the beautiful face grew
grave. 'It might have been the wind,' she said doubtfully, speaking slowly to the rippling waters, 'but, if it was, the wind
is a spirit—yes, a good spirit. Now he has spoken to me. I am beautiful, and I shall be happy.'

A dull roar from the distant rapids beat down ominously along the evening wind. With the wind that bore the sound
came a wave, which broke itself against the black rock, casting a tiny cloud of spray upward.

The girl's face altered its expression at once. The thought lines vanished, while others appeared to bend round her
mouth in the shape of a smile.

'Beautiful,' she murmured, alone, yet half bashful; 'the water has told me so often, and now it calls me again.'

She inclined her head forward, while the smile deepened. 'Listen!'

The waters splashed, rippled, flashed, swung round in a long gurgling eddy, then splashed again. Out of this rose a low,
musical tinkle, with a soft lap-lap upon the rocks which sounded like a kiss.

'Yes. That was a name. Listen! There it comes again—Menotah! Heart that knows not sorrow.'

She timidly came to the extreme edge, then fell to her knees. As the sun disappeared behind the grey-dark ledge
opposite, she bent her dainty head over and down, until the long black hair divided and fell in two glossy strands, the
ends of which floated like seaweed upon the foam patches.

The river pool commenced to blacken, while flowering rushes tossed their shivering heads and murmured. The Spirit of
the waters called her. So she leant over—down, nearer, closer, until her fingers curved over the stone amid the moisture
and green slime.

For a moment or so she was motionless, in a set posture of watching and wonder. Then, with the darting action of a
bird, she was up to the higher ridge of rock with a single bound. Another spring, and she was upon the grass track at
the side. An invisible frog awoke his water-side orchestra into sharp chirpings with a gruff note. It was time for her to
desert the quiet river pool, for evening was pressing down, and there was much on hand.

But, as she was about to flit away, a guttural cry proceeded from the bush behind, while the stroke of a thick staff
tapped fretfully upon the rock platform she had recently abandoned. Casting a glance back over her shoulder, she
perceived an old man, with long hair and scrubby white beard, emerging from the bushes.

'So, I have come upon you, child. I have found you at length.' Such was the manner of his greeting.

She turned back, and placed a curling foot upon a point of stone. 'And what has led your footsteps into the forest, wise
Antoine?' she asked lightly.

'You, child—you.' He spoke slowly.

'What! You wish to borrow my eyes? You have come forth to pluck berries and gather strong medicines. Come! I will
help you.'

The old man fixed his keen eyes upon her laughing face, then drew his coarse blanket of a gaudy yellow more
conveniently over his shoulders. Then he came forward and said, 'Girl, I have been seeking you for long. I watched you
dart like a sunbeam into the forest, so I followed with my slow speed to give you warning.'

She tossed back her head. 'Warn me! Of what, and why?'

'The white man,' said the other impressively. 'He is abroad in the forest. From this time he is our foe. Perchance one
might meet you in such a spot as this, and—'

She interrupted him scornfully, with a proud movement of her head. 'Let him find me. I am stronger than any man, since
I can disarm him with a woman's weapons.'

The old man raised a reproving hand. 'You speak, Menotah, with the folly of youth. Now will I answer you with the
wisdom of age. For who are you that you should know the cunning of the white man? He feels not the emotion of love,
for his heart is made of ice, while his dark mind changes as the waters of yon river. Mayhap you might be captured by
him. Then, what darkness would settle upon the tribe without its heart of joy? There would be no music in the song, nor
passion in the dance.'

The girl laughed with a long musical burst of happiness.

'Child! I have warned you. Listen to an old man's words. Follow his advice, and keep the heart to yourself.'

For answer, Menotah snatched a long tendril of bright green from a neighbouring bush. She cast this wreath around the
old man's neck, then danced back, clapping her hands in delight.

'Now you are young again,' she cried joyously. 'You are to forget that the frost of age has ever stiffened your limbs.
You must now cast aside all your wise sayings, which always fall like cold water upon my ears. Come! Take me by the
hand. Then we will wander forth together. If you are mournful, I will sing to you. I will dance and laugh, that you may
forget your infirmities. For where I come, sorrow may never be found.'

The red glow on her cheeks deepened, as the light in her eyes leapt into a flame. The ruddy berries dropped over her
temples and kissed the eyelids when she stirred.

But the old man only shook his white head, and gave back no reply.

Then Menotah stepped to his side, and bent her graceful figure down. She held her face near his, while the soft mouth
twitched in the effort to restrain its mirth.

'Wise Antoine,' she said, with an attempt at carelessness. 'You have travelled over much land and water. You have seen
many people. Is it not so?'

Wonderingly he replied, 'It is so, my daughter.'

'Then tell me'—and there was a slight tremor in her voice—'since you have seen so many women, tell me, have you
ever looked upon one more beautiful than I? Have you seen any more perfect?—more graceful?'

Her face was quite solemn as she finished her question.

The old man frowned, and pulled at the falling blanket with a claw-like hand.

At length he spoke. 'It is true that I have seen many women. I have looked upon the daughters of white men, and some
of these are fair. I have watched, also, generations of my own people, as they passed from childhood to maturity,
growing and ripening like green berries in the sunshine. Many of these were very good to look upon.'

'But I—' she murmured, and then stopped short.

The old Antoine smiled feebly, displaying a perfect row of teeth. Then he would have turned aside, but she touched him
with light, eager hand.

'I stopped your words, old father. What more had you to say?'

'Let us go back,' he said. 'See! the night comes upon us.'

But Menotah only laughed again, while the roar of the great rapids beat down upon their ears with sound of sombre
menace.

She bent her beautiful head over his shoulder, and asked, 'The daughters of the white men are fair—you have said so?'

'But you are more beautiful than all,' broke forth the old man, half fiercely. 'Surely. None, on whom my eyes have
rested, have owned such flow of life, such health, such gladness of spirit. These things are beauty. You are as straight as
a young fir, and as fair as the evening star.'

In an instant her assumed gravity had disappeared. Laughing merrily, she darted back, with black hair streaming cloud-
like behind. But the old man pursued her with a searching question,—

'Child! Menotah! What dream spirit has whispered into your brain, as you slept beneath the moon? What is that which
has told your mind that you were more beautiful than others—that you were even fair at all? You have learnt from me,
yet on such matters have I given you no knowledge.'

Menotah was singing gaily, unconcernedly, and for the time appeared not to notice his quick questionings. But suddenly
she sprang aside to the bushes, and parted them with eager hands. Then she glanced back, and commenced to chant in
loud, distinct tones,—

'Old father, you have taught me much, yet, being a man, you might not read a woman's heart. You could not tell her all
—not that she wished especially to learn. So she has searched for that knowledge wherever it might be found. Behold!
she has succeeded.'

The Ancient would have spoken aloud in wonder, but the bright girl gave him no opportunity.

'One day, near the setting of the sun, I came along this way. The river-pool was already growing black, while long
rushes bent and murmured when they saw me approach. Then, when I stood upon the black rock, I heard the echo of a
soft voice, which arose in music at my feet, and crept up until it touched my ears. So I knew that it was the Spirit of the
waters who was calling me. And he had knowledge for my ear, and mine alone. Do you still hear the soft voice calling
beneath us, old father?'

She raised her dainty figure, then uplifted a small hand, inclining her head forward with a graceful gesture. The waters
lapped and whispered against the slime-green base of the rock.

'Men-ha! Ot-ah! Me-e-e-e-ot-ah. Ah-ha! Ha-hah-ha-ah! Me-ot-hah. Ot-ah! Ah-ah-ah! Ot-ah! Ot-ah! Ah-hah! Men-
ot-ah! Ot-ah! Menotah!'

'Do you hear, old father?' she cried joyfully. 'Can you hear the voice of the laughing waters? Each night they call me,
and bid me come.'

Then the old man frowned, and raised a crooked hand to point upward over the rock-ledge opposite, where a cold ray
of white light struggled through shadows.

'Hear also the voice of the great rapids, daughter. They shout, and they call, also. Would you hasten to their bidding?'

She shuddered slightly, then replied, 'Not so, old father. I would not obey the summons to death and silence.'

Antoine shivered also, as the night chilled his body. 'We tarry past the sun-setting,' he muttered. 'It is not well to be
abroad at this time.'

'Ah! But listen first,' she pleaded. 'Here what the Spirit of the water had to show me.'

Again he paused, while she wrapped the cold bushes round her waist, and bathed her fingers in the dew-wet foliage.
Then she spoke,—

'I came onward to the rock-brink, yet I trembled. For I feared lest the Spirit might stretch forth an angry arm to draw
me down, and claim me as his victim.

'So I came with hesitating footstep, and leant with hidden dread over the great stones, whereon the brown reeds beat
their flowering heads. I looked, yet saw nothing, but the drifting clouds and bright pictures of evening sunset, for the
waters swirled and bubbled, as though in anger. Again I looked, but there was still nothing, save the shadow of the
bright sky.

'But then a dim mist formed slowly and rose with gradual motions from the bottom. As it came nearer it gathered
together, and took a wonderful shape, while my heart beat loudly as it rose to the surface, which was now calm and
smooth, for the white foam and curling ripples had fled beneath the rock. And as I bent down—lower—nearer, until the

ends of my unbound hair kissed the face of the waters, that shadow lay upon the surface, and held its lips up to mine.

'Then I looked upon a being of beauty. There was a maiden, with eager, parted lips which were curved into a smile. I
saw also eyes, happy but determined, and thick waves of hair enclosing a blameless face. At the pleasure of beholding
so much beauty I smiled. And, behold! the vision smiled also, while the waters broke into ripples of silent laughter. Then
I frowned, creasing up my forehead into long wrinkles, and forthwith the waters moaned with storm breath, while
sunshine departed from the valley. So then I laughed aloud, bringing again joy to the Spirit, with adornment to the face
of the waters.

'For I knew that I was beautiful—beautiful—beautiful!'

She bent her happy face forward, with a small shake of the head at each repetition of her final word. Then she liberated
the bushes. They closed behind, and she vanished. But her happy song was still borne through the forest as she glided,
bird-like, amongst the trees.

The Ancient was left again to himself He pulled the blanket over his scanty white locks with weak motions, while his thin
lips parted in unspoken words. His deeply furrowed face was pinched and frowning.

Then he turned, also, and went his way.

It is a native custom thus to hang streamers to some bush after a prayer. The disappearance of such
is a sign that the Spirit is pleased and will grant the desired favour.

CHAPTER III

THE BUDDING OF A PASSION

Nearer the outskirts of the mighty forest, where between the tree trunks might be caught, when the bushes sometimes
parted beneath a slight gust of wind, a silvery flash of the sun-kissed river, two men stood side by side in earnest
conference. Very dissimilar were they in every particular, save in the one important distinction of race. One was much
bent by time's heavy hand; the other enjoyed the full vigour of early manhood.

This latter was tall and finely shaped; his arms were like strong wire ropes, and swelled with blue muscles as he moved
with the unconscious animal grace of the native; his dark-skinned face was clearly cut and set in firm lines of
de...